


No More

by Snowgrouse



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Darkfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-13
Updated: 2008-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The human Doctor still carries all the Doctor's memories. After the first two decades have passed, he starts to come undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More

**Author's Note:**

> Post-S4 fix-it fic, of the very dark sort, but hopefully cathartic in its own way. Thanks to 45eugenia, marah_sarie and therru for betaing. There's no happily ever after in this story, but it's bittersweet, I hope.

***

After two decades have passed, John Smith grows more and more discontent.

***

When he faces problems that require fast solutions, it takes him longer to come up with the answers; to work around the brick walls and dead-ends the human cognition is full of. Sometimes the answers come too late, sometimes not at all. Failure makes it difficult for him to contain his rage, and he ends up with cuts on his knuckles and bruises on his feet when he kicks whatever inanimate objects he can find, and his voice becomes hoarse from screaming.

It's days like those when he notices Rose smiles less, and that does not help _at all_. When she turns her back and walks away, he yells at her, words he isn't proud of and would rather forget.

With every passing year, he becomes slower, mentally and physically. The one thing that's left, however, is his acute sense of time, an awareness of every second ticking him further away from what he once was. It's the tick-tock of deterioration, growing louder each day, and it's deafening.

***

He looks at himself in the mirror and sees an aging man--gray on his temples, wrinkles on his face, his freckles turning into liver spots. He takes the mirror off its hinges and lets it crash onto the floor. 

He doesn't like his reflection in the shattered glass either.

***

At the opening of a new research institute in Llanfairfach, he's surprised when he hears Rose laughing--he can't remember the last time he heard her voice sparkle like that. He catches a glimpse of her--smiling, talking to a young male scientist, excitement and joy in her eyes. The sunlight catches her gray-blonde hair as she tilts her head, and she looks just as beautiful as she did at nineteen, full of curiosity and wonder.

What surprises Smith the most, however, is that he isn't jealous. He turns away when he sees Professor Grant-Jones taking Rose's hand. Smith lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, and walks away.

***

A change of scenery helps for a while. He travels around the world, seeking the exhilaration of adventure, the sights and sounds of new places and new people, the rush of a stranger's love. Yet he can't escape this planet, this time period. No amount of running away can change that.

At night, he dreams of fobwatches and dematerialisation circuits. When he reaches out to touch them, they slip through his fingers and turn to dust.

***

He finds himself mixed up in other people's wars again, but he can't remember what for. Hostile aliens, as usual, he tells himself, and not for the comforting weight of a weapon in his hands. He signs up for the most dangerous missions, throwing himself in front of guns and explosions. His commanding officers can't decide if he's mad, a show-off, suicidal, or all of the above.

When he does get injured, his wounds no longer seal up immediately and continue to bleed. Smith finds this fascinating. His face is alight with childlike curiosity as he pokes and prods at a shrapnel wound in his arm, his eyes wet with tears and awe. He keeps pulling the small piece of metal out and pushing it back in again, waiting for the artron burst that never comes.

It's only when he's shot down over the Skagerrak that he's forced to stop. When he comes to his senses in the hospital, he realises he's in Norway. He bursts into laughter, a broken, hysterical laughter, until they are forced to sedate him.

It's a miracle he survived, the doctors tell him, especially since they couldn't get all the bullets out. One was left in, one centimetre from his heart. It was too dangerous to remove it, they tell him, so he will have to live with it until the end of his life.

When he's released from the hospital, he chooses to stay in Norway, and buys a simple cottage near the sea.

***

He sits on the cliffs overlooking Bad Wolf Bay and waits.

***

He keeps a diary of once-possible things. It's therapeutic, he reasons. When he writes things down, draws them from memory, it's easier to let go of them.

At least that's the theory. Several pages are ripped out, charred, others scratched through and full of smudges.

***

One evening, a stranger joins him on the beach. The wind whips through his short, sandy hair, and he has his hands stuffed in the pockets of a long black overcoat. He stands there and watches Smith, with a serious expression on his face, his eyes dark and narrow. His coat flaps in the wind, the silk lining flashing red in the light of the setting sun.

Smith thinks he burned that particular page a long time ago.

***

Most days, they don't speak, just walk or sit in companionable silence. At first, Smith wonders if he's spending time with a ghost, if he's merely created an image of the Master to keep him company. After all, there's a distinct lack of histrionics, maniacal laughter and gloating. The Master never forces a conversation, and on those days when Smith does feel like talking, the Master never interrupts him.

He listens, with something that could be interpreted as curiosity, to everything Smith talks about, no matter how trivial: whether it's the effect of the Gulf Stream on the Scandinavian climate, the way he used to love Jackie's scones but picked out the raisins--never liked raisins, and Rose, well, Rose is married now, she's had a baby, it's been two years and two months since she last called and it's fair enough, he's rubbish at being a human and all he wants is to go *home*--

\--and he hasn't cried in months, but now that he's started, he can't stop. He sits and rocks and wails on the clifftop, tears rolling down his face. He keeps tugging at the grass, pulling out tufts here and there, until the Master stops him with a hand on his back. Smith leans against the Master's shoulder, the black wool of the Master's coat soaking up his tears, muffling his sobs.

It's getting colder, and Smith shivers a little. He's only in his shirtsleeves and blue trousers, tie discarded long ago. He curls up closer to the Master, and the Master covers both of them with his coat. The Master's body is cold, but comfortingly so. It reminds Smith of what he lost, and what he can never get back.

This calms him, somehow.

Maybe the Master is his way out of this, the way Rose was his way out of the Time War.

It's late June, so the sun barely dips below the horizon at these latitudes, and dusk and dawn blend together, painting the sky a burnt orange either side of midnight. Swallows sweep in circles in the sky, chirping.

It doesn't occur to him until later how stiffly and awkwardly the Master is holding him. Smith looks up, and the Master cups his face with a gloved hand, stroking his cheek with his thumb. The Master's expression wavers, and it takes a moment for Smith to realise what it is. It's a frown he once saw on Koschei's face, the day Theta's mother had died. In this Master's eyes, Smith thinks he spies something... akin to pity, perhaps.

The tick-tock in Smith's head grows louder and louder, faster and faster as he turns to face the Master. Slipping off the Master's glove, Smith presses it flat against his own chest, beneath the opening of his shirt. Cold skin against his single heartbeat. He looks into the Master's eyes, searching.

When he finally speaks, his voice is brittle from crying.

"Help me."

The Master discards the glove on his other hand, and places both of his hands on Smith's temples, stroking his hair. He pulls Smith closer towards him, face to face, eye to eye, breath to breath.

"Do you want it to stop?" the Master asks.

"Yes," Smith whispers, pulling him into a kiss.

The Master's mouth tastes of raspberries and cognac.

***

The Master follows Smith to his cottage. Smith goes to the fireplace, and lights a fire to keep them warm.

That night, they make love. Smith laughs as the Master covers his body with kisses and licks--he kisses every wrinkle and spot, as if committing them--him--to memory. The Master's expression remains serious, wistful, even as the heat of their lovemaking peaks and descends. They share wine between kisses throughout the night and then start all over again; both giving and taking, tangling up the sheets, soaking them with sweat.

In the morning, the ashes of Smith's diary are cold in the fireplace.

They lie together under the quilt, embracing, Smith's head resting on the Master's shoulder. Smith blinks at the sunlight coming in through the window. He feels calm, content, relieved.

"I'm ready."

The Master tilts Smith's chin up and kisses him, softly.

"It's time to go."

***

The Master pours him another cup of wine. This time, it fizzes and tastes bitter as the Master holds the cup to Smith's lips. Smith drinks deeply, feeling it burn in his throat, in his stomach, the searing heat spreading into his limbs, making him shudder. He clenches his hands into fists at the pain, nails digging into his palms, but he downs the whole cup, thirsty for this offering.

The Master sets the cup back on the bedside table and wipes a stray drop from the corner of Smith's mouth with his thumb. There's no mirth or glee in the Master's eyes, no trace of malice, and Smith lets out a small, grateful laugh. He takes the Master's hand, lacing their fingers, squeezing tightly.

"Thank you."

The Master kisses him on the lips, a chaste kiss, saying goodbye. For the first time, Smith can hear the Master's voice shaking, catching in his throat.

"Now, sleep."

Smith shivers with cold, and the Master pulls the quilt over them both, holding Smith in his arms. Smith lays his head on the Master's chest, his lashes fluttering against the Master's skin. The tick-tock grows quiet as his heartbeat slows down, as his limbs grow slack with relief, and he smiles.

The Master passes a hand over his eyes, and John Smith is no more.

***  
FIN  


ETA: An illustration for the fic can be found [here.](http://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/1948858.html)


End file.
